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<title>One Thousand Souls by Hopetohell</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716827">One Thousand Souls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell'>Hopetohell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Allegory, Experimental Style, Light Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:15:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>397</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reluctantly, Napoleon takes on the role of Reaper. When he collects one thousand souls, then he can rest.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

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<a name="section0001"><h2>One Thousand Souls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One thousand souls. Napoleon buys his way out of perdition with one thousand souls; he has a list. And it feels so damn dirty, doesn’t it, trading their souls for his own. But it’s better than the alternative. </p>
<p>The man’s a modern-day Prometheus of sorts; he stole divine light and got caught, he was chained and collared and brought before a tribunal already bent on sending him down. But that little voice, that little spark of hope and faith, spoke from the back row. <em>Let him buy his way out</em>. Little oil-stained fingers lit the lamps with shards of secrets; hope said <em>let him try</em>. </p>
<p>And bitterness said <em>he will fail. He will fail but I will walk beside him. When he falls I will witness him so that he might not be forgotten</em>. </p>
<p>Faith and hope and bitterness. Napoleon never shows his true face; when he comes to collect, he is congenial, a little teasing; he plays the role and plays it well. But it’s hard, sometimes. He reaps men and monsters both; the very old and the very young fall beneath his cloak and wink out into nothingness.</p>
<p>One thousand souls. One thousand lives, one thousand memories of sunlight on the water, of knee-deep blood in the trenches, of small hands reaching up in joy. He takes them all and feels them gathering inside him; he tries to let them out but they are bound to him. </p>
<p>This is how it is, then. Bitterness casts a long shadow, cold like cracked ice, <em>there’s always a catch. You think they’d just let you buy your freedom? They’d never let you go so easily.</em></p>
<p>And hope, laying clever gentle hands on his arm: <em>it’s a gift. You remember them, and in a way they live forever.</em></p>
<p>But Napoleon doesn’t <em>want</em> to remember them; he doesn’t want to be their keeper. Better to burn than to hold their memories in his hand for always. All their sorrows and joys are too much too much too much, and so many of them ask him <em>why</em> when he cannot answer. It’s their time, that’s all; there is no why. And bitterness grabs his chin in a big firm hand; bitterness says <em>buckle down and bear it, Cowboy</em>. </p>
<p>Hope says <em>when you reach one thousand you can rest</em>. </p>
<p>Faith is silent. It no longer speaks. There’s no longer anything to say.</p>
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